


Handsome

by rillaelilz



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Personified Object
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s all about hands at first - big, calloused, gentle hands shaping her and smoothing her sharp angles down until she’s the wonderfully round cherry on top of a newly built house. Quite the little work of art, if she says so herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handsome

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the same old tale, told from the most ridiculous point of view I’ve ever come up with so far. But never fear, I trust myself to do worse in the future.

It’s all about hands at first - big, calloused, gentle hands shaping her and smoothing her sharp angles down until she’s the wonderfully round cherry on top of a newly built house. Quite the little work of art, if she says so herself.

Paint tickles, but the brush is fair enough to smear some of it on Bungo’s button nose, too. He smiles, a delightful show of white teeth and a bright green splotch spreading from tip to nostril and dotting away into a subtle dimple.  
Ah, she can’t compare. Not even the brass knob and pretty bell could have made her any more-

“ _Perfect._ ”

She could chuckle.

Bungo’s hands are dry and loving when he pats her next - his grin wide and nose-crinkling. She’s happy.

 

A  _Handsome Job_ , Belladonna calls her, springy curls dancing about her as she throws her arms around Bungo’s neck and his feet flail midair for an utterly dramatic moment.  
Handsome is very flattered.

 

She becomes very concerned when the house fills with all that screamin’ and squeakin’ and the pattering of Bungo’s steps up and down the hall, coming and going to the pressing rhythm of  _Push! Push! Push!_  she can hear echo straight to the deepest corners of the hill.

_Push!_ , they urge, and she bristles, ‘cause they better not push the poor girl right off her hinges or Handsome will be shutting flat on their silly hobbit noses and relish the subsequent crunching noise with  _absolute glee_.

 

She’s  _puzzled_  when helpless cries turn into a new,  _tiny_  kind of wails. And quite alarmed when cheering and clouds of pipe-smoke arise from the front lawn, crowded with rosy-cheeked hobbits -  _Relatives_ , Bungo always sighs - and swarming with celebratory rib-elbowing and back-patting.

She’s still confused when days pass and Belladonna walks outside with a small bundle held to her breast, coos on her lips and light tickles on its chin, crooning this sweet little  _Bilbo_  song as she introduces the swaddledaddled thingie to her flowerbeds and pots and empty rose bushes.

 

Handsome comes to understand as the weeks go by and Belladonna sits in the garden with her baby, to feed him with the last of the summer sun warming them; when she snuggles with him on her rocking chair in the living room, telling him about the perils and charms of the wilderness, of enchanting elves and loyal dwarves, narrating the wonders of endearing bearded fellows and tall people with mysteriously round ears.

Handsome listens too, intrigued, and as weeks blend into months and the meadows turn frosty white, her boards settle, and her own loyalties grow and strengthen with every cold gust of wind.

 

He’s a scoundrel, Bilbo is. Goldilocks jam thief during winter and grubby-handed copper-head in summertime, he pairs off pretty well with some of their younger hosts - whiskered little pests, to be sure. Travellers, mostly - Belladonna often has them over, and eagerly so; Bungo just shrugs it off at first, but he does end up having more than a laugh and  _plenty_ more than one ale when they’re in good, bearded company.

The children are rare, truth be told, but when there  _are_  some and they cross Handsome’s threshold with their bootsies and big wide eyes, they soon find a friend in Bag End’s fuzzy-toed prince.

 

He does grow to be his own partner in crime, Handsome is quite sure of that.

When other younglings are swamping the nearby lanes, Bilbo’s nowhere to be seen. He comes back hours later, when it’s dark - shirtsleeves knotted around his neck and shirt swaying behind his back like a cape, small stick in his hand like a seasoned traveller, empty lunchbox thrown over his shoulder and sometimes a jar of fireflies glowing close to his tummy.

She creaks on purpose when his hand pushes her knob, a loud screeching noise that vibrates through the whole house, and she giggles to herself when Bilbo finds his mother right round the corner, lips pursed and arms akimbo.  
Belladonna always forgives him though, peace made and sealed with a smooched kiss to his temple.  
Handsome usually scoffs at this point.  
Yes, she is jealous. Sometimes.

 

Jealousy is still better than helplessness, but she only learns that when they take Bungo away, seemingly asleep. She almost thinks it’s a prank, but nobody’s laughing.  
Their solemn silence is  _deafening_. It’s so out of place around them, on their round cheeks and chubby bellies - so out of tune on their joyful lips. It makes her hinges want to rust and her nice paint peel off.

 

Belladonna doesn’t take too long to follow suit.

And Handsome waits, shut as Bilbo leaves her for days on end - she waits and waits and waits, but they never come back.

 

She doesn’t know how long it is before Bilbo is letting her swivel and creak again; she’s just happy the Hole didn’t swallow him whole like a lot of passers-by mutter every other day.

He brings food. Weeds the garden. Waters the rose bushes. Oils her hinges.

He doesn’t talk -  _he never talks -_  but it’s okay, they can manage.

 

Grief and boredom seem to walk hand in hand, for even in the darkest loneliness she becomes  _sick_  of Bilbo’s less than entertaining lifestyle; sick of being locked for so long, of Lobelia’s glares that vary in intensity of sentiment throughout the years - which is hilarious, to be honest -, even of the interested looks children send her way every now and then, because no matter how close or how curious they get,  _they just never knock_.

This life’s only saving grace is young Master Gamgee’s chatty way of gardening, once Bilbo gives up on personally taking care of his flowers.

She can only hope good Hamfast will stick around.

 

The due twist occurs one sunny day, when a tall grey-hatted man creeps about her and then scratches her new paint off to carve a glowing rune into her boards. Handsome is neither impressed nor pleased by this.

Oh, but things do get a tad bit more exciting after sunset.

 

See, the first one looks suspicious, there’s no denying that. Dark hood and great bushy ‘stache, he stomps up the lane only to stop and scrub his soles on the last step leading to her domain. And yet, he rings her bell more gently than she would have expected - he even bows, then.  
Now  _this_ , this pleases her.

 

The second one looks so fluffy and sprite-like, Handsome can’t help but chuckle and wonder if his ears are secretly as pointy as his hair and boots seem to be. He speaks in such a charming way, she lets him in with a smitten little squeak.

 

The third and fourth ones come stumbling and pushing each other and laughing together so joyfully, she just  _has_  to coo. They’re youngsters, oh, she’s missed youngsters.

Of course, she doesn’t  _miss_  them as much anymore once the stubbly one is wedging his muddy boot in the doorway and barbarically pushing her open again, but the golden one seems decent enough to be left alive a bit longer.

 

The next batch of merry comrades - plus the creeping grey guy - comes at her with a bit of jostling and loud bantering and ‘ _I was here first_ ’s, and an ignominious voice shrieking  _Let me ring the bell!_  while a couple of hands reach for it.  
_Bells_. Let nobody talk about  _bells_  to her again.

The flappy hat one rips it off when they fall in a messy pile on the floor, landing right before Bilbo’s hairy feet.  
Needless to say, his delicious fluster by this point is her only comfort.

Yes, she’s of the bitter kind. So what.

 

No matter how hard it is to admit it, that night is  _brilliant_.

She can feel Bag End’s walls burst with life again and sing along, so warm and excited, it’s like the entire hill wishes to join the merrymaking and singing and clattering of plates and thumping of feet and it’s - oh, it’s as annoying as it is  _marvelous_ , and she creaks happily.

They have waited far too long for this.

 

The last bearded fellow arrives late, yet not as late as everyone else will think.

He takes heavy steps up to her, looks around for a while, hesitates when the first silly notes from the house reach him. For a fleeting moment it’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself - like he’s out of place, a jigsaw piece pressed in the wrong spot.

Then he takes his hood off - Handsome swoons just a tiny bit - and pointlessly clears his throat, waiting for the song to be over before knocking, and she makes sure to make it echo as far as she can.

_Lost his way twice_ , he tells them. It’s not like she could tell anyone, but she does have her doubts about that.

 

There’s more singing, that night. It crackles like fire and seeps in the walls and her own wooden heart, cozy and comforting, and yet sad and longing.  
  
She  _knows_  Bilbo will leave, come the morrow. He’s still Bella’s little scoundrel, after all.

 

It’s not surprising, how lonely it feels.

Granted, she could spend the morning being angry at them all for leaving too early and shutting her so gently Bilbo could never have noticed on his own, and then she could entertain herself with some healthy cussing at Bilbo for not sparing her a second glance before rushing down Hobbiton’s slopes, but it  _is_ lonely - and it could overwhelm her, if she didn’t know that this is what  _they_ would have wanted for him.  
And it is. Ah, it is.

 

A year. A whole, blasted, long year.

_Lonely_  doesn’t even cover half of what she feels, neither do  _mad_  or _outraged_ or utterly  _betrayed_ , but that doesn’t stop her from protesting out loud when filthy feet barge in without her permission, when clumsy hands rummage and steal and pocket the smaller goods before the rest is taken to be sold by auction.

Oh,  _this_  round of helplessness is almost worse than the first.

It’s the most awful feeling since her family started leaving her behind one heart at a time, and it’s enraging, and she keeps on swinging and stubbing their toes and knees until they wedge her open and  _if only_  she could kick and scream to their stupid faces -  _if only_  she could protect her home in the same resilient stubborn way she always has-

and then, there he is. Her copper-head, funny shield and backpack thrown over his shoulder, stick in hand like a seasoned traveller. He’s still much more of a scoundrel than a knight, and yet she’s never been happier to see him.

 

He’s exhausted, she can almost  _feel_  it in the way he drags his feet on the floor and needs to keep his balance with a palm spread on the wall, be it night or morn or noon.  
He talks less than before, eats less than before. Sleeps so much more, instead. _By her._  Curled up in a corner, head lulling against her cool boards when he’s most spent.  
He deserts his bed on more nights than not; crawls to the doorway, waits until his eyes decide to close or his mind finally shuts, like a door.  
He misses breakfast and luncheon very often, these days. She can’t help but wonder if he’s missing something else, too - if he’s waiting for something that just won’t come to him.

But mostly, she’s worried - she’s never been this worried before.

It’s like loneliness made Bilbo a shell and carved everything worth taking right out of him.

Months flow away and he withers, like Bella’s flowers when he left. He cracks like a broken pot, furls his arms around himself like ivey twisting around a fence, holding on, hiding, shielding his heart from view.

Whatever he’s waiting for to start living again, Handsome mutters to herself, it’d better arrive soon.

 

It’s just a matter of threatening fate with one straight look and then waiting for it to be terrified enough to hand you the solution, in the end.

 

 

He has no hood on, this time; but he still hesitates in the soft light of sundown, and Handsome still swoons - just that tiny,  _tiny_  bit.  
  
She almost feels bad in letting him knock and not being able to just swing open the moment his boots touch the worn doormat laid before her.

 

She’s lucky to be there to see it, because Bilbo’s petals unfurl and in that moment, he blooms like a rose in May.  
Handsome #2 - or that’s what she’ll dub him until Bilbo has enough voice to call his name a bit louder than a choked murmur - steps inside and Copper-head disappears in the tight circle of his arms.

She could smile. Nobody will ever thank her, but she has her merits in this and, well, she’s quite satisfied with herself.

When they remember to gently close her behind them, and she can hear the house hum again with the warmth of a newly kindled hearth, she finally settles for the first time in many, many years.


End file.
